


Love burns

by JoseyxNeko



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A little bit of fluff, Aziraphale has one of Crowley's feathers in his bookshop, Can someone put Pestilence back in his cage?, Crack, Crack Prompt: Boredom, Crowley fights with his inner monologue, Good Omens Lockdown, It's 1800 words of Crack, M/M, Other, Why is everything burning?, because i'm soft, i'm not crying you're crying, it's crack, lockdown - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:54:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24026188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoseyxNeko/pseuds/JoseyxNeko
Summary: Crowley tries to find things to do to keep himself busy during lockdown, with disasterous results. Aziraphale has his own plans.Crack Prompt: Boredom, specifically during Lockdown.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 52
Collections: The Not-Very-Nice and Anatomically-Inaccurate Prophecies of OLHTS





	Love burns

**Author's Note:**

> Why is this 1800 words?
> 
> What is wrong with me?
> 
> It's not even that cracky.
> 
> Send help.

Crowley was bored.

He was piss bored.

He was _so_ indescribably bored that he decided to phone his Angel.

Well. He wasn’t _his_ Angel. Not yet.

_Not ever, if they keep moving at this gruelling speed._

“Yes, thank you brain for that little tidbit!” he growled into the empty space of his flat.

_And not at all if this Lockdown never ends._

Crowley sighed. It had been little over a month since the UK went into Lockdown after Pestilence decided the world had been healthy long enough, and came out of retirement.

Sure it was hilarious how pissed off Pollution had gotten when the rivers of Venice ran clear, and the smog over China lifted, but this really had gone on ridiculously long.

Crowley would’ve stepped in himself to intervene, but by the time he’d noticed the Ex-Horseman on tv, whispering into the ears of politicians, the bastard had settled in the White House. Easy target, he had heard. Not much sense to work against.

If only he hadn’t been so distracted going on dinner dates with his Angel.

_Not your Angel-_

“Ok! I’m not going to sit here and bloody-” he gestured, agitated, with one hand, “ _pine_ all day. I’m not going to bother him unless he calls me first. He probably hasn’t even noticed that the world has shut down. Got his nose stuck in a book or something.”

He sniffed.

He was going to find something to do to distract himself.

He’d seen many instances on the internet of humans cooking in their spare time. Something about a sour dough starter kit. He miracled some in, prepped it, chucked it in the oven.

That didn’t seem so hard.

He opened the oven a while later, and the dough was singed black, and smouldering lightly.

Ok. Maybe not bread making. Maybe something simpler.

A homemade soup! How hard could that be? Chop up some vegetables, throw them in a pot of water to boil, season, and you’re done. He could eat it with his charred bread.

Except his hob was on fire.

He miracled a fire extinguisher, put out the flames, and threw his apron away. His cooking days were _over_.

Modelling! He hadn’t tried building a model in _years_ , not since averting the Apocalypse had become his top priority.

He got out his box of matchsticks, and began building a mini replica of the Houses of Parliament, complete with clock tower.

 _Why_ he decided to build miniature barrels and a tiny Guy Fawkes is beyond him, but that scale model was flaming like anything the moment he placed the last matchstick down.

Probably his own fault. He’d used real matches, after all.

He sat on the sofa, looking at the ashy remains of a quite brilliant model, if he should say so himself, and reached his arm around the back of one of the cushions. His fingers nudged a small box he’d forgotten about. He retrieved it.

A box of cards.

Whilst he was in no mood to play Gin Rummy by himself-

 _Although he could do with the gin part,_ he snapped his fingers, a bottle of Gordon’s appearing.

-he could build a house of cards. See if he could get through the whole deck before it fell down. It would keep him busy for a while, at least.

And it did. Before it inexplicably combusted without reason, lightly toasting Crowley’s eyebrows.

He flipped the table over, banishing anything recreational and flammable out of his home, and decided he would just have a bath.

It had been a while since he’d shed. Perhaps it could hurry things along to his next sloughing of scales, since he wouldn’t be out in public for some time yet. He’d be all lovely and refreshed come the end of Lockdown; perfect for taking his Angel out on a date.

_Not your-_

“Shut it.”

He ran a bath in his luxurious tub, and slid into it in human form. He’d transform into the serpent later to get the full benefits, but for now he just wanted to feel the bubbles against his skin, the warm water slowly swallow him up at he lowered himself into it. It was hotter than he was expecting as it reached his chin.

Scorching, even.

He was on fire.

He leaped from the tub in time to see the whole thing go up in flame, melting the tiles on the wall.

He didn’t even know tiles could melt!

He extinguished that too, pat himself down, and sat on his sofa again with his head in his hands.

He was decidedly _not_ going to give his plants a stern talking to. Even if they did have a spot, they didn’t deserve a random spontaneous burning.

His phone then rang. It was his Angel.

_Time to make that a reality._

“I know it’s you, Aziraphale.”

The Angel hadn’t had any difficulty with baking, the competent sod. Not only that, but he was making his way through all those cakes by himself.

Crowley imagined it, and tugged the crotch of his trousers down a bit to make sitting more comfortable.

“-slither over and watch you eat cake-”

He was being very forward, and he knew it, but he was getting very fed up of the heat of loneliness, and his loins were _literally_ burning at this point. All he wanted was to see _his_ Angel, and get past this stupid 6000 year barrier.

Except he was rejected. Again.

At least it wasn’t a _‘You go too fast for me’_.

He was going to sleep. It was the only safe way to pass the time by this point.

He set his alarm, pulled a duvet sized fire blanket up to his chin, and settled down to sleep.

He dreamed he was surrounded by cakes, the sweet sugary smell assuaging his senses, and there was his Angel, wearing an apron, _nothing but an apron_ , stirring a bowl of batter. And something was tugging at his foot. A roulade had wrapped itself around his ankle and was pulling and pulling him, and suddenly-

He opened his eyes just in time for his face to meet the bookshop floor.

“Oh, Crowley!” Came the worried voice of the object of his affections.

He looked up from his crumpled pile to see the Angel at the edge of a summoning circle, image distorted by the haze of candle flame, holding open a book with what looked like an envelope in it, and _unfortunately_ fully clothed in his usual outdated garb.

“Oh my dear, I’m so sorry. You said you’d be asleep!” Aziraphale fretted at the edge of the circle.

Crowley twisted into a sitting position, scrubbing his chalk covered face with one hand, and clutching his cuddle pillow with other.

_...and by ‘cuddle pillow’ he meant perfectly demonic and evil body pillow._

“Was,” he mumbled, eyelids still heavy. “Wassontheceilin’.”

“Oh.” The Angel clutched the open book tightly to his chest. “Can I get you anything?”

“Out of thisss ssscircle?” Crowley slurred.

“Oh! Yes, of course, just let me-” Aziraphale lit up with realisation, and began snuffing out the surround candles.

Once Crowley was free, Aziraphale carefully helped him up off the floor and onto his sofa in the back room, chattering all the while.

“I’m sorry to call you here like that, my dear, but it really was rather a _lot_ of cake to eat all by oneself, and I have been feeling rather lonely since those burglars left all those days ago. I remembered what you said about coming on over to eat cake with me-”

“ _Watch_ you eat cake,” Crowley corrected gruffly.

Aziraphale ignored him. “-and I just thought ‘Oh! I have a better idea than you turning into a snake and slithering here. Why don’t I summon him instead?’ And so I did. And here you are.” The Angel flashed a brilliant smile at him, which was almost blinding in the dimness of the bookshop.

They sat in silence for a few moments whilst Crowley wrapped his head around what the Angel had said.

He let out a long suffering sigh. “Angel.”

“Yes Crowley?”

“I can travel down phone lines. You know, shrink down real small and get here that way? All you needed to do was ask.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed in realisation. “I...hadn’t thought of that.”

Crowley was in love with an idiot, and he only loved him more for it.

The book Aziraphale was holding caught his attention. There was a letter in there addressed to him.

“’S that for me?” he asked, reaching for it.

Aziraphale moved it behind himself. “Oh, yes, well, I needed something of yours to summon you with,” he explained shyly.

Crowley frowned. “I haven’t even received it yet. How would that work?”

“It’s addressed to you, and therefore it’s yours. The summoning wouldn’t have worked otherwise,” the Angel said indignantly.

Crowley tried grabbing for the letter again, but Aziraphale moved it just beyond his reach.

“And what did you write the letter with, Angel?” he asked, raising a knowing eyebrow.

Aziraphale smiled. “That beautiful feather of yours that you gave me to use as a quill, I-”

He paused as Crowley gave him a look.

“...I- I could’ve just used that, couldn’t I? No need to write this....silly letter...” he said bashfully.

Crowley took that moment of self-distraction to make one last swipe for the letter. This time he was successful, and he stood up with it in his hands to look at it closely before the Angel could take it back. He didn’t get very far before Aziraphale bodily threw him back onto the sofa, having snatched the letter back and miracled it away to an unknown location.

The Demon sat on the sofa, wide-eyed in shock.

“I do hate manhandling you like that, Crowley, but you didn’t leave me much choice.” Aziraphale wrung his hands nervously, but that wasn’t what was bothering Crowley.

“Was that....a green wax seal?” he asked, bewildered.

Aziraphale froze.

“A green wax seal meaning ‘lovers who live in hope’?” Crowley clarified, looking up at the Angel doing a very good impression of a deer in headlights.

An immeasurable amount of time passed before the baroque statue before him thawed out and muttered quietly; “It may have been.”

Crowley reached up and took his hand in his, pulling him down to sit with him.

“And what do you hope for, Aziraphale?” he asked hopefully, entangling their fingers together.

Aziraphale looked down at their enjoined hands, and back up at the Demon. His cheeks darkened with a blush.

“A kiss...would be nice.”

Crowley leaned in immediately, cupping the Angels face and pressing their lips together softly. He concentrated very, _very_ hard on not setting himself ablaze.

He pulled back minutely, and breathed against his face, “And anything else, Angel?”

Aziraphale whimpered, and mouthed something that looked a lot like ‘go upstairs?’

A wide grin formed on Crowley’s face. “Oh Angel, we’re going to have the best remainder of Lockdown ever.”

He kept a fire extinguisher at hand the whole time.

**Author's Note:**

> Could've been worse.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed, as it fuels my creativity. Kudos are appreciated too :)
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/joseyxneko).  
> 


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